Things Left Unsaid
by potterfan2013
Summary: Post-Reichenbach Reunion fic. Sherlock comes back on the third anniversary of his death, and sees how his death has affected John. Much angst and comfort fluff ensues. This is a SLASH JOHNLOCK fic. Don't like, don't read. This could turn into a multi-chap fic depending on response. WARNINGS: Possible self harm and eating disorders.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I know it's been forever since I've updated, and I want to sincerely apologize. I'm going to update my other Twilight story in the next week. Anyways, this is my new fandom. I think this will be a multi-chapter story, depending on the response I get. Please read and review!**

_Falling, falling, the smack as that head hits the pavement, someone else he couldn't save, just another casualty. All his fault._

Dr. John H. Watson was a celebrated war hero, a marksman, a very good doctor, but for all his accomplishments he could not save the one person who had meant the world to him for the longest time. The person who had saved him, and he couldn't repay the favor. Sherlock's jump had triggered his PTSD with a vengeance, and his limp was back full force. His best friend, the only person who he had trusted completely, was gone. And now that he was gone, now that _he_ could no longer be told, John had finally realized that he had been in love with him.

_When will you stop? When will you stop this? Stop being dead, please, for me_. John knows that he is avoiding saying, or thinking his name, he knows that he is in denial. He has seen the stages of grief, but he cannot seem to care.

John Hamish Watson is a broken man. He knows it. He knows that it is not normal to grieve for so long, to be so unable to get on with his life. But _he_ took John's life with him when he jumped. So her has no life to get on with.

He slides a finger up and down his wrist, feeling the ridged scar tissue that had formed, from months of pain, and loneliness. John hasn't gone back to the surgery, he can't bear to. Mycroft has been supporting him, and no matter how guilty he feels, he cannot bring himself to do anything to stop it.

And then there's that voice in his head: _Look at yourself. A cripple. Do you LIKE depending on Mycroft? You are so pathetic, not really of any use to the world now are you. You don't work. At least you were important in the army. Not anymore._

John knows that the voice is right. He is a cripple, he can't even walk. Now that _he's _gone, no one needs John Watson for anything. And that thought numbs John from the inside. That's all he is now. Useless.

John has long ago stopped seeing the point of living, had long ago decided that he wanted to kill himself. He had only been waiting for the right day, and time. Today was the third day of _his _death, and John wanted to go the same way. John gets up for the first time in days. He hobbles to the door, pauses, and then hobbles to his desk, retrieving his gun.

_Just in case_, he thinks.

Johm has gone to the roof of St. Bart's hospital every year since _his _death, he knowsthat no one will stop him. He hails a cab.

"St. Bart's hospital please"

Kilometers away, in Mycroft Holmes' office, his blackberry buzzes.

**Finished. **__**I will be home in an hour. Where will John be?**

**SH**

Mycroft sighs. He knew this day would come eventually. He had just hoped it wouldn't be today, of all days.

**On the roof of St. Bart's. Do not alarm yourself, Sherlock; he goes there every year, on the anniversary.**

**MH**

Mycroft looks over at the CCTV stream he has of 221B Baker Street. Something he sees makes him gasp and stretch an arm out blindly for his phone.

**Disregard my previous statement. He took his gun with him. I think he means to kill himself, Sherlock. I will send Lestrade, in case he jumps, they will have a trampoline ready. **

**MH**

Sherlock gapes at the phone. No, not John. Not his John, his soldier. After the shock comes crushing, sticky guilt.

_I turned him into this. My fault. John is going to kill himself. My fault. Always my fault. Please, God, don't let me be too late._

Sherlock does not reply to the text, choosing instead to run to the edge of the pavement, and urgently hail a cab.

"St. Bart's hospital. Double the fare if you get me there is 20 minutes." Sherlock knows that John is ever the soldier. He will wait for the exact time, to honor Sherlock in his own way. He knows that John has realized his feelings for him.

The cab arrives at St. Bart's, and Sherlock wastes no time in bounding through the doors, and up the stairs, thinking of nothing but John. Hoping, and praying that his deduction about timing was correct.

He bursts onto the roof, casting his eyes around frantically for John, relaxing finally when he sees John standing on the roof, at the exact point from which Sherlock jumped.

"John?" Sherlock is tentative. He knows that John thinks he is dead, and that seeing Sherlock would be a huge shock.

John whirled around, surprise on his features.

"Sherlock?" He can hardly believe it. No, _he _cannot be alive. John had taken his pulse. It wasn't there. He had been gone, his brilliant brain crushed from the impact. Gone, forever.

"No. NO! You're DEAD! I took your pulse! You were GONE! And I couldn't save you." The last words were almost whispered. Sherlock finally realizes. John feels guilty, that he was unable to save Sherlock.

"John, no. It wasn't your fault. Please, _please_ get down from the ledge."

"Sherlock, why?" John's voice is broken. It breaks Sherlock's heart to see his friend, his soldier so very depressed. Now that he's looking, he can see that John's lost quite a bit of weight, he hasn't shaved in quite a while. He looks heartbroken, and Sherlock wonders if he has been going to the surgery. He doubts it.

"John, just step away from the ledge, and I'll tell you, just _please_." Sherlock hopes and prays that John will listen to him for once.

John slowly steps down from the ledge, and Sherlock practically tackles him in a hug.

"Don't _ever _do that again!"

John is looking at Sherlock, still in shock.

"You're real. You're here. Sherlock –" John's voice breaks, and Sherlock cannot bear to hear it. He feels very much out of his depth. Emotions are not his area and he knows it. So he deals with it the only way he knows how. By being sarcastic.

"Excellent deduction, John. Maybe I'm rubbing off on you."

Sherlock doesn't know quite what to expect, but what he certainly does _not_ expect is the impact of the doctor's fist against his face. Sherlock is thrown back, and looks up at John in surprise. John looks furious.

"SHERLOCK! YOU BASTARD! YOU COME BACK FROM BEING _DEAD_ AND NOW YOU'RE BEING _SARCASTIC_!" John then proves his military background by swearing profusely in both English and Farsi before pulling Sherlock up by his coat, and hugging him tightly.

"Please, don't _ever_ leave me like that again, God, _please_."

"John, look at me." Sherlock can feel John's tears dripping onto his shirt, knows that John is breaking down, because of him.

John looks up at Sherlock, his face tearstained, a desperate, lost look in his eyes.

"John, I only jumped for you." Sherlock holds up a finger to stop John's questions and protests.

"Moriarty threatened you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. I had no choice. I've been hunting down Moriarty's gang. Now that I'm done, I've come back."

John hugged Sherlock again, crying.

"You IDIOT! You could have said something! A note, a call, ANYTHING would have been better than… what you did."

"John, you had to believe that I was dead. There was a sniper assigned to you. If there was _any_ indication that I had contacted you, you would have died."

"Sherlock—" John sighs and buries his face into Sherlock's coat, smelling that familiar smell. Spice, leather, and Sherlock. This is where he belongs. John knows, then.

"Sherlock, I… I think I'm in love with you."

Sherlock looks at John in shock. It couldn't be that John returned his feelings, could it? Ah, that explained John had fallen apart.

"John, I love you too. You're the only person who puts up with me, who won't judge me, or ignore me because I see the world differently."

John cannot say anything. His knees buckle, and black spots dance across his vision.

"John? _John!_" Sherlock lowers John to the ground as his knees give out.

"When was the last time you ate, John?" Sherlock knows that the doctor hasn't been eating since his 'death'.

"I think… a week ago? Mycroft forced me to eat."

Sherlock is shocked. _A week_? Even Sherlock can't last that long without passing out.

"Oh, you foolish doctor." Sherlock sighs and scoops John up, and carries him down the stairs. He is surprised at how light John has become. When Sherlock walks out of the hospital, he is greeted by Lestrade sputtering at him.

"But… I didn't believe…You were DEAD! Do you have ANY idea what you did to John?!"

Sherlock sighed and gestured with his head to the bundle in his arms.

"Lestrade, I am very aware of what I did to John, don't think for one minute that I don't regret it. Now if you will excuse me, I need to take John back home. Please tell Mycroft that I appreciate his help, but I need to fix this myself from now. I don't want him to interfere."

Lestrade was shocked. "How did you know about…"

Sherlock cut him off. "Please, Lestrade, don't insult my intelligence. Mycroft texted me, naturally. Please pass my message on to him."

Sherlock did not wait for the Detective Inspector to respond, turning on his heel and stalking off in the direction of 221B.

Sherlock looked at the unconscious man in his arms, sighing. Logically, Sherlock knew that he had only done what was necessary, but it had destroyed his closest friend, his _only_ friend, and Sherlock wasn't sure if he would ever recover.

**A/N: I hope you liked it! Review please! **

**-Potterfan2013**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Another chapter already? Whew! You should feel lucky, I usually never update this fast. I am not a consistent updater either. Life tends to get in the way. Anyways, enjoy!**

Sherlock sat and watched John sleep, and sighed to himself.

"Oh, John. How could you do this to yourself?" Sherlock still couldn't believe that John had so totally destroyed himself. Sherlock knew all about John's need for danger, but he had never thought that Sherlock's absence could... No matter. Sherlock had no choice. John could have died!

Sherlock rose and looked down at John. He looked so small in the bed sheets, almost like a child. Sherlock's mind started to deduct all about John's life after the fall.

_Hasn't been eating properly, maybe couldn't keep anything down? Hasn't been sleeping well either. He feels guilty, obviously, from what he said on the roof. _

Sherlock sighed again, and went into the kitchen. John would need to eat when he woke up. Sherlock had no experience with cooking, so he made tea and toast. John wouldn't be able to stomach anything more anyways.

Once Sherlock was done, he laid his head against the cool wood of one of the cupboards, finally giving in to his guilt. Why had he not checked on John himself? How could he have missed his condition? Why hadn't Mycroft told him? Sherlock was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn't hear John wake up and go to the bathroom...

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW 

John woke up and groaned, trying to remember what had happened. He went through his memories of the last few hours.

_Oh. OH!_ John remembered Sherlock on the roof of St. Barts. But no. That was impossible. It must have been a dream. That was it. John was amazed at the vividness of his dream. He could have sworn that Sherlock had been there. John wished more than anything that it had been real. John could feel the tears coming, he always cried when he thought about Sherlock. John let himself weep for a few minutes, before rising from the bed and making his way into the bathroom. He knew what would help numb the pain. No matter how self-destructive it might be, it was the only thing that helped. John walked into the bathroom, and pulled out a razor blade. He sunk onto the white tiled floor, and let the blade rest against his wrist. John sighed. Maybe this time, no one would find him. He let the blade run across his wrist, opening up another cut to match the old ones that decorated his skin.

John watched the blood run down his arm and drip onto the tile in dull fascination. Red on white. In a way, it reminded him of Sherlock's fall. The bright crimson blood on his face, and the pool of it on his own hands. Black spots begin to cloud his vision, and just before he passed out, he saw Sherlock at the bathroom door, a look of shock on his face. Sherlock's horrified yell of "JOHN!" followed him into the darkness.

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW 

Sherlock recovered himself, and walked out of the kitchen and back to John's room. When he walked into the room, he saw, to his horror, that the bed was empty.

_Did I miss one of Moriarty's henchmen? What happened to John?_

Sherlock looked around the room again, and saw no signs of a struggle.

_Maybe he just woke up?_

Sherlock walked out of the room and to the bathroom, hoping to find John there. The bathroom door is open and the light is on, which strikes Sherlock as odd. Wouldn't John have closed the door? A queer sense of foreboding came over Sherlock, and he quickened his pace. He looked into the bathroom, and was met with a sight that would haunt him for years to come. John was sitting on the floor of the bathroom, with a blade to his wrist, and blood everywhere.

"JOHN!" There is so much blood, too much. To Sherlock's horror, John has fallen unconscious from blood loss. Sherlock rushes to John's side, grabbing the bath towel. He falls to his knees, and tries to stop the blood. He looks down, and notes absently that his hands are shaking.

After what seems like forever, the blood slows and Sherlock feels like he can get the first-aid kit. He finds it, and practically runs back to the bathroom. He gets the needle and thread from the kit, and stitches up the gash on John's wrist, thanking a God he doesn't believe in that the cut was horizontal, and not vertical. He ties off the last stitch and wraps John's wrist in bandaging. He lifts John again, cringing inwardly at how little he weighs.

Sherlock walks back to bedroom, and settles John on the bed again, vowing not to leave his side until he wakes again. Now that John is safe again, Sherlock allows himself to go over his memory, focusing on the other scars that were on John's arms. None of them were older than a couple years old. Sherlock would be willing to bet that John had started to self-harm after Sherlock's faked death. And Sherlock is suddenly afraid of what else he will find.

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW 

Hours later, John is finally waking up. Sherlock reaches over, and grasps one of John's hands between his own. John freezes, and then opens his eyes. He suddenly recoils.

"No. You were dead! You aren't here. I'm just hallucinating." John's voice is quiet, and broken, and Sherlock wishes he would shout and scream. He doesn't. He sounds lost, and confused, and so unlike the regular John that Sherlock himself begins to feel hopeless himself.

"John, please. I AM here. I faked it." Sherlock doesn't know what to say. "_Please_, John, listen to me!"

John, responding perhaps to Sherlock's tone, or maybe the naked pleading in his face, nods. Sherlock explains how he faked his death, and why, and John listens. And slowly, Sherlock can see John start to believe. Once Sherlock is finished, John stares at him for a few more minutes.

"John?"

"Sherlock…did you find me in the bathroom?" Sherlock nods.

"John, you could have died! Why would you do that to yourself?"

"Sherlock, you don't understand. I did die. My heart stopped when I saw you fall. I fell in love with you without realizing it, and I couldn't stop blaming myself for not having told you. I couldn't stop thinking that maybe, if I had said something, you wouldn't have jumped."

"John! Stop it! It isn't your fault. It was my plan, and I'm sorry I hurt you." Sherlock can't stand hearing John talk anymore, hearing John blame himself.

"Sherlock, promise me something?"

"Hmm?"

"No matter what, don't send me to a hospital. I know that you are hear, but there are some…emotional side effects that may take some time. Just… no hospitals. Do you promise?"

Sherlock is warring with himself, and John must see it, because he reaches out and grabs Sherlock's arm.

"Promise me!"

Sherlock has no choice. "I promise. I will be here, and I will take care of you, but no hospitals."

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed that! Please review, they mean the world to me!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Here is the next chapter! I will take suggestions on what you think should happen next. I won't guarantee that I will use them, though. Anywhose, PM me with the suggestions, please. Thanks! Don't forget to review!**

John has finally relaxed, reassured by Sherlock's promise. Sherlock looks at John, wondering…

"John, after I…left…what else did you do to yourself." Sherlock stumbles over the words. It is so hard to think of John hurting himself, John, who Sherlock always fought to protect, _his_ John.

"Sherlock, I…don't think…" Sherlock looks at John with wide, pleading eyes. He _has_ to know.

"I… alright. I'll show you." John sits up, and Sherlock automatically moves to help him. John leans against the headboard, and unbuttons his shirt slowly. Sherlock watches John's hands. He can see that they are shaking. Finally, finally, John took the entire shirt off, and Sherlock looks down at his torso and arms. Sherlock feels bile rise in his throat, as he sees the scars. Cigarette burns, razor cuts, whip markings, and some long jagged cuts that had been crudely cauterized. In addition, Sherlock could see the clear signs of malnutrition and lack of food, leading him to suspect that John might be anorexic.

"John, I…you…why?" Sherlock was shocked. He had never expected this level of damage.

_John, my John._

Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't get rid of the images of John burning, cutting and whipping himself. The stress must have shown on his face, because John reached out a tentative hand and put it gently on the side of his face. Sherlock turned his head, so his nose skimmed along one of the scars on John's wrist.

"Sherlock, I was so alone. I blamed myself for what happened. I have PTSD from a _war_ Sherlock! What did you think having my best friend die in front of me would do? I had flashbacks for the longest time, I still have nightmares."

Sherlock's eyes drift along John's forearm, and his eyes widen in shock. Written along John's forearm is his name. It had been carved with a straight edged razor, and it must have been very deep, because the scar looks permanent. John saw that Sherlock had seen it, and dropped his hand.

"That was just a week after you…left. I had really bad PTSD attacks, and I was afraid I would forget you, so I did that. It helped me focus during some of my attacks."

"John, I'm really sorry. I really didn't think that I would affect you so much…"

"What did you _expect_, Sherlock?! I was in love with you, you prat. And you just ignored me, and jumped…" John whimpered slightly, his eyes glazing over, as he got trapped in his memories.

Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. He leaned over John, and swept him into a hug. John stiffened a little, before collapsing into Sherlock's embrace, sobbing. John buried his face into the side of Sherlock's neck, smelling that unique combination of spice, leather, and something John labeled as _Sherlock_.

Sherlock clung to John as though his life depended on it, feeling John fall to pieces in his arms, finally letting out all the pent up emotion of the last three years. Sherlock's heart broke, and he began to murmur into John's ear.

"I'm sorry. I love you, John. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."

The two men stay like that until Sherlock's voice is hoarse, until all he can say is _John, John, John_, until John's eyes are red and puffy, and his head is throbbing. Sherlock feels John begin to relax, and knows that he is about to go to sleep.

"John?"

"Mmmm?" John's voice is a sleepy murmur.

"You need to eat."

Sherlock feels John freeze in his arms, and pulls back to look at John's face. John looks heartbroken, and terrified.

"Sherlock, I…can't. Please, don't make me."

It takes all of Sherlock's willpower to ignore John's pleading, but giving in would not help John.

"No, John. You need to eat. You're much too thin."

John sags against the headboard, knowing that arguing would be futile. Sherlock stretches his long limbs, and grabbed the tray he had made earlier. He rises from his seat next to John and goes to the kitchen. Sherlock makes a fresh pot of tea and more toast, keeping his ears alert for any sound. Finally the toast is done, and Sherlock carries the tray back to John's room, and sets it down in John's lap. John looks at the food, disgusted.

"John, please."

John sighs and grabs the toast, taking a bite out of it. Sherlock can see the panic flit across John's face, and reaches out a pale hand to grip his. John grips Sherlock's hand in a death grip, and takes another bite. He puts the toast down and looks at Sherlock.

"I can't eat anymore. I…I don't want to get fat, Sherlock, please don't make me get fat." John is whimpering, on the verge of sobbing. Sherlock gives in.

"Alright John." Sherlock grabs the tray, and sets it on the floor next to John's bed.

"Stay with me?" John looks at Sherlock pleadingly. Sherlock nods, and climbs into bed next to John, hugging him close to his chest. Sherlock can feel all of John's vertebra, and knows that eventually he will have to eat. But for now, this is enough. It would be a long, hard, road to recovery, but Sherlock would stay next to John every step of the way.

**A/N: I am getting kind of stumped on where this should go next. I have some major plot points that I want to happen, but connecting the dots is hard. Submit suggestions! Thanks!**

**-Neha**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Here's a new chappie! I hope you like it! Remember to review! **

Sherlock jerked awake, feeling the bed move. He looked over next to him, and his blood ran cold at the sight of John, twisting and writhing on the sheets. His face is covered in sweat, and he is muttering. Sherlock looked at John in shock. He was frozen. He had known that John had nightmares, but he had never really thought about it. Suddenly, John started to yell.

"SHERLOCK!" Sherlock knew what John must have been dreaming about. The fall. Sherlock reached out a hand and placed it on John's shoulder.

"John? John, wake up! I'm right here!" Sherlock is desperate.

John suddenly shot up into a sitting position, narrowly missing Sherlock's nose.

"Sher—Sherlock?" John's voice breaks, and Sherlock can see that he is close to tears.

"John, its fine. It was just a dream." Sherlock felt awkward. Emotions were not his area; they were more Mycroft's. But John needed him, and Sherlock would never abandon John again.

John clung to Sherlock as if his life depended on it, silent tears dripping down his face. Sherlock's heart broke as he let John cry himself out. Soon, Sherlock realized that John was no longer sobbing, and realized that John had fallen asleep. Sherlock looked down at the army doctor. His face was smooth in sleep, with none of the pain that had been haunting his face for the past few days. Sherlock brushed some hair out of John's face, and arranged him so that he was lying down. Sherlock let John rest on his chest, and ran his fingers through John's hair, soothing himself to sleep.

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW 

Sherlock groaned, stretching. He blinked and surveyed the room. John was standing next to the window. Sherlock rose, and padded over to John, laying his hand on John's shoulder. John reached up and placed his hand on top of Sherlock's. Sherlock looked out of the window, and saw what John had been staring at. The roof of St. Bart's was just barely visible. Sherlock sighed and wrapped his arms around John's torso, letting the smaller man lean into him.

"I had a nightmare last night."

"I know." Sherlock was surprised. He hadn't been expecting John to bring it up.

"I wasn't expecting you to still be here."

"John, there's nowhere else I'd rather be." Sherlock couldn't believe that John still thought that he would leave.

"Sherlock…I'm scared. Of _this_." John gestured at the space between himself and Sherlock.

"I'm scared that I'm going to fall in love with you, and you're going to disappear on me again."

Sherlock could hear the vulnerability in John's voice, and his heart broke. John was never supposed to sound so _broken_. John was a soldier. He had gone to war, and he was the bravest person Sherlock knew.

"John, I'm not leaving. I promise. Never again." Sherlock couldn't think of anything else to say. John didn't say anything, but turned towards Sherlock, and let his head rest on Sherlock's chest.

"You need to eat, John."

"O-OK. I will." Sherlock was surprised. He had expected John to fight against having to eat. But he was glad that John had finally decided to eat again. Sherlock let go of John, and grabbed his hand. Sherlock practically dragged John behind him to the kitchen. John sat down on one of the dining room chairs. Sherlock heated up some beans and toast, and set them down in front of John.

John glared at the food with a look of disgust on his face, but picked up a spoon, and began to eat. Sherlock watched John until he had finished his food.

"Thanks Sherlock. I'm going to take a shower now."

Sherlock nodded. He had removed all the razors from the bathroom while John had been unconscious, so he knew that John could not cut himself again. John rose and padded across the flat to the bathroom. Sherlock listened and heard the shower turn on. He sighed, and cleared the dishes from the table and washed them. By the time John was out of the shower, Sherlock was sitting on the couch with Doctor Who in the DVD player.

John walked into the living room, toweling his hair, and stopped short. Sherlock was sitting with Doctor Who displayed on the television screen, and two mugs of tea on the coffee table. Sherlock gestured to the spot next to him, and John sat down.

"John, let me see your arms." Sherlock had removed all the razors he could find, but he knew that there were probably other things that John could use.

"Sherlock… No." John's voice was hard.

Sherlock looked at John, sighed, and forcibly gripped John's arms, restraining him enough to roll up his sleeves. There were about 15 fresh cuts decorating John's forearms.

"John… what did you use?"

John sighed, and sagged in Sherlock's grip.

"I hid a lot of razors all over the bathroom. Mycroft used to come in and search the apartment for razors. I got good at hiding them, and removing the cameras whenever I needed to."

Sherlock wanted to shake John, demand of him why he insisted on doing this to himself. At the same time, he wanted to hug John and tell him that he would never be alone again. Sherlock settled for gripping John tightly.

"John, this stops now. I want you to show me all the razors that you have hidden. You can't keep doing this!" John looked at Sherlock and saw the worry on his face, the fear that John would go too deep someday.

"A-alright, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, and let John rest against his chest, wrapping his long arms around John's torso. John grabbed the remote, and played the Doctor Who episode, and then pulled down the blanket that was on the back of the couch, wrapping himself and Sherlock in it.

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW 

John stirred, and felt a pair of arms tighten around his torso. He craned his neck, and saw Sherlock. John sighed, and let himself relax on to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock pulled John back in to chest, and murmured in sleep. John let his eyes drift closed, and relaxed for what felt like the first time in years.

Sherlock woke up and looked down at his chest, seeing John lying there. He wasn't asleep, Sherlock knew, so he shook John gently.

"John. John, wake up! You need to eat!"

John grumbled, and sat up. He climbed off of Sherlock, and went into the bathroom. Sherlock watched him, and then got up. He went into the kitchen and made toast and tea. Sherlock heard the shower turn on. Suddenly, he remembered the conversation he and John had the night before. He wasted no time, and rushed to the bathroom. Sherlock didn't knock, instead he pushed the door open. Nothing could have prepared him for the sigh that greeted him. John was sitting on the toilet, running a blade over his arm.

"Sherlock!" John tried to hide the cuts, unsuccessfully.

"John. Stop. Give me the razor." John looked up at Sherlock, and handed him he razor with a defeated look on his face.

"Get in the shower. I'm going to watch you. And after breakfast, you are going to give me all your razors."

John started to complain, but Sherlock shot him a _look_ and John sagged, defeated. He pulled his clothes off, and climbed into the shower. Sherlock leaned against the wall. He tried to delete the image of John drawing a blade across his arm, but he couldn't. It was burned into his brain. He closed his eyes. He had no idea how to deal with this. He wasn't good at emotions. Maybe he should get Mycroft to help. But John would hate it. Sherlock stayed in that position until John tugged at his arm. Sherlock opened his eyes, and grabbed John's hand, leading him into the kitchen. After breakfast, Sherlock would make John give up all his razors, and then they would get through this.

**A/N: Well, here you go! There will be a time lapse before the next chapter. Anyways, review please! I hope you liked it!**

**-NP**


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